The Elf on the Shelf — KILL IT! KILL IT WITH FIRE!

The other day, as is now tradition, I was subjected to my boss’ annual rant about The Elf on the Shelf.

For the uninitiated, allow me to explain. The Elf on the Shelf is a yuletide gimmick used by parents who can’t be bothered to keep their children in line through traditional methods and have to rely on “the magic of Christmas” to keep their rugrats from going feral in the throes of the “gimme gimme gimme” season. (Okay, okay, that’s a bit draconian. But not entirely inaccurate…)

The elf lore states that when you adopt an elf (who comes in an eminently giftable set with his or her own storybook and adoption papers), that elf becomes your family’s elf every Christmastime. He or she shows up after Thanksgiving/around the first of December and lives with your family, watching the children and reporting their behavior back to Santa each night until Christmas Eve, when he or she returns to the North Pole until next year.

How do you know he goes back to the North Pole every night?

Because every morning, he’s somewhere different in the house.

Because Mom and Dad have to remember to move him into some new and interesting pose every morning.

For an entire month.

I take issue with this atrocity in two major ways, the first of which is the fact that parents can be unwittingly committed to this charade by (possibly) well-intentioned relatives or friends. My boss has two little girls, now six and two-and-a-half. Three years ago, her mother in law gifted them the dreaded Christmas abomination, and, of course, the then-four-year-old saw it and knew about it and therefore Mom and Dad were shit out of luck. Now they HAD to do it, or risk the wrath of Mom-in-law AND the small human.

For parents who don’t decide to participate of their own volition, this ridiculous pretense is simply an added chore during what is, for most people, an already very busy time of year. The rules state that NO ONE can touch the elf or he loses his magic, which means that Mom and Dad have to be awfully sneaky when they change his location every day. And God forbid they should forget! Small humans can be keen little observers, and I’ve heard about plenty of fits of brokenhearted wailing at the sight of Mr. Elf in the same place two days in a row because that meant “He didn’t got back to the North Pole and now Santa won’t know how good I was and I won’t be on the Nice List!”

You can only blame inclement weather so many times for Mr. Elf’s non-movement.

And if he’s not somewhere different EVERY TIME, EVERY YEAR? Oy…

The thing is, if you make a gift of this farcical toy, you get to fuck off elsewhere and leave the recipients to deal with it. You unthinking bastards.

Now, the second reason I take exception to The Elf on the Shelf is the concept at its core. When you plug it into Google search, you get a little thing at the side of the screen which shows things “People Also Search For:” and one of those things is George Orwell’s 1984, a novel set in a futuristic dystopian society with omnipresent government surveillance and public manipulation.

That’s right, kids, Santa is Big Brother. “He sees you when you’re sleeping, he knows when you’re awake.” Santa’s already a fuckin’ creeper, and now we’re training subsequent generations to toe the line for future despots when the revolution comes and we’re all turned into mindless, government-worshipping drones. (Again, draconian, but, I mean, come ON.)

Your children aren’t behaving because they know that it’s the right thing to do. They’re behaving because the threat of a fat man in a red suit not bringing them things because they got tattled on by a plastic-and-fabric effigy of a mythical humanoid creature is more motivating than their parent’s approval of their life choices.

There’s something wrong with this picture.

BUT, there’s a way out!

So, you’ve ended up with one of these elves, and you don’t have the time or the inclination to deal with it. Here are some creative (and incredibly, incredibly messed up) Get Out of Jail Free cards!

Kill it! Kill it with fire!

The kiddos come out in the morning, bright-eyed and excited to see where Mr. Elf has ended up today! The fireplace in the living room is roaring, and there’s Mr. Elf clinging for dear life to the handle on the damper. His elf uniform is happily toasting, his plastic face melting away. “Oh, dear, looks like he came back from the North Pole just as Daddy started the fire this morning! What? We didn’t know he came down the chimney like Santa! Now stop sobbing and eat your cereal.”

Elf Leprosy

Play the game for a week or so, and make sure that one of the places Mr. Elf ends up is very, very wet. Then don’t dry him out properly, and expose him to some sort of mold. One morning, the little angels will follow a trail of elf bits down the hall to the remains of Mr. Elf’s mangled corpse. “This is what happens when you don’t take baths! Your parts fall off! We’re going to have to send him to a special place for people like him where he can lose his remaining limbs in peace and not infect anyone else. Now, go to school. Mommy has to bleach EVERYTHING so we don’t all DIE.”

And finally,

The Dangers of the Outdoors

“Where’s the elf? Where’s the elf?!” they cry. “I don’t know, darlin’s. I’m sure he’ll turn up.” And then he does. On the front lawn. Impaled on a strategically placed and totally-not-on-purpose sharpened stick stuck into the ground. “Uh-oh. Looks like when he was trying to come back down the chimney from his trip to the North Pole he slid and fell and ended up as an elf-kabob! Well, what have we learned from this, kids? Don’t play on the roof!”

You’re welcome.